


Portentous

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [288]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: As One Does, First Meeting, M/M, playing with Sherlock dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:32:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12116691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: portentous: adjective: por-TEN-tuss: of, relating to, or constituting a portent; eliciting amazement or wonder; prodigious, being a grave or serious matter, self-consciously solemn or important: pompous; ponderously excessivefrom Merriam-Webster:At the heart of portentous is portent, a word for an omen or sign, which comes to us from the Latin noun portentum of the same meaning. And indeed, the first uses of portentous did refer to omens. The second sense of portentous, describing that which is extremely impressive, developed in the 16th century. A third definition—"grave, solemn, significant"—was then added to the second edition of Webster's New International Dictionary in 1934. The word's connotations, however, have since moved into less estimable territory. It now frequently describes both the pompous and the excessive."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For once, I'm using the archaic definition, referring to omens.

First of all, it must be said, there was nothing particularly portentous about that day. Other than the odd warm weather, perhaps, and that John hadn't left his tiny, terrible bedsit for what seemed like weeks, and Sherlock had simply wandered into the lab because he was, surprise, surprise, bored out of his mind, and though the coffee was terrible, he had nothing else to do.

Sherlock sighed at the interruption, Mike and a... friend. Hmmph. Friend. He looked at him under his lashes as he played with the adjustment dials on his microscope. Soldier, doctor... wounded, but doesn't really need the walking stick...

"Here use mine." John had no idea why he offered this complete stranger the use of his mobile, but was mesmerised by the tall, dark haired man who moved to take the mobile from him. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked and knew he had never been seen before. Not even back before he was discharged, the man who rattled off most of his recent history had barely glanced at him, and yet, he saw, probably saw more than he mentioned. Out of politeness? He considered, then shook his head...

"So, that's it then? We've just met - I don't even know your name or where to meet you."

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, the address is 221 B Baker Street. Afternoon."

And with that, he was gone. 

John sat down hard on the stool and looked at Mike, who shrugged. "Could be interesting, Mate, at least you won't be bored, you won't be sitting around on your arse, counting the cracks in your ceiling of that terrible bedsit any longer, he never sits still for long."

Sherlock hailed a cab and fell into the seat, wondering what he had done. He didn't need the flatmate, rent was covered, but there was something undefinable in the man's eyes, something unknown, something he wanted to know. He leapt out in front of 221B Baker Street, throwing a few bills at the cabbie and hollered to Mrs. Hudson as he entered the building. "Found someone for the other bedroom, be needing that other chair!"

 

Just another ordinary day...


	2. Chapter 2

"Mike..."

"Yep."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Hmmm?" Mike took a sip of his lager and tried to focus on the match they were watching at the local.

"About Sherlock."

"Hmm. Well, you may have noticed, he's a bit -"

"Different?"

"Yeah."

"Gimme."

"I've seen him sitting at Angelo's, not eating, just sitting there talking to a skull."

"And?"

"According to Angelo, the skull's name is Billy,"

John shrugged. "So, he talks to skulls, doesn't sleep, eats too little, used to do drugs, clean about six months, I'd say, plays the violin all hours and doesn't talk for days to living, breathing humans?"

Mike turned toward him and raised an eyebrow at him.

"C'mon, Mike, I am a doctor. Was a doctor, he's not the only one who can observe, you know. Interesting he was wrong about Harry. She'd get a kick out of that, probably would have smacked him." He shrugged and tossed back his beer. "I'm a surgeon who can't hold a scalpel, can't sleep because of the nightmares, I'm essentially broke, can't walk, - without this stupid thing..." He kicked at his walking stick, succeeding only in knocking it to the floor. "Not sure who is going to make the worse flat mate."

"I've never seen him willingly talk to a stranger, he doesn't like 'new people' and yet he took to you, so who knows? One more?"

"Nah. Gonna call it an early night. Got some research to do. Thanks, Mike."

"Don't thank me yet, John."

 

a few years later...

 

"And, lastly, we'd like to thank our friend Mike Stamford, where is he? There you are, stand up, Mike. Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses, without our friend Mike, here, we never would have met, and you would not be eating rubber chicken, or sipping that rather nice champagne that Mycroft pitched in for. Myc, of course couldn't be here because there are several small countries...never mind, you don't need to know about that..."


End file.
